Playing Dirty

PLAYING DIRTY

A Texas Scoundrels Novel

JAMIE DENTON

Copyright © 2015 Jamie Ann Denton

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For those who serve,
and those at home who love them,
Thank you for your service,
and your sacrifice.

* * *

And for Mattie Elizabeth Garber,
This one’s for you, Stinkerbell.

I know I will be called upon to perform tasks in isolation, far from familiar faces and voices . . .

The Special Forces Creed

PROLOGUE

Somewhere in Afghanistan…

FORD GRAYSON FORCED himself to concentrate on anything but the bastard methodically stripping the flesh from his back. For five years he’d been held prisoner, believed dead by his government, and by those he loved. God help him, he would find a way to escape.

The sting of the lash seared his skin, or what was left of it. The punishment, an example to others, dealt because he’d struck a guard, violated more than the Geneva Convention, it violated the laws of man.
 

They could have shot him, could’ve beheaded him in a political statement. They enjoyed their games of torture too much to dispose of him quickly and painlessly. Regardless of his vow to gain freedom for himself and the others, he almost wished they had ended him. Sheer will kept him alive.

The desert sun burned his skin. Eyes closed, his body flinching with each stroke of the whip across his back, he tried to numb his mind, and failed. Instead, he thought of other places, other people. He thought of home. Warm summer breezes coming off the lake in his hometown of Hart, Texas. The sounds of the city, of downtown Dallas. And how much he missed his wife.
 

Visions of Mattie filtered through his mind. Her struggle to keep the tears at bay whenever he’d deployed, and how she always lost the battle once she thought he couldn’t see her. The way her cat-green eyes simmered with desire. The way she’d melted into him that final, chilly winter morning when he’d deployed on his last mission. God, he’d give anything to hold her in his arms again.

He cursed his captors.

The acrid scent of diesel fuel burned his nostrils, the exhaust fumes from the idling truck choked him, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. They’d tied his hands and feet to stakes in the dusty courtyard. Spread eagle and face down, his shirt stripped from his body, blood oozed from the open wounds. It trickled down his back and mingled with the red, talcum-like dust that had covered him since he’d first arrived in Hell.

Pounding feet and raised voices filled the compound. His torturer flicked the whip one last time, but Ford concentrated on the voices. From their shouts and his scant knowledge of the language, he caught enough key phrases to garner they would be moving the prisoners again. He no longer had any idea if he was still in Iraqi territory, or if they’d been moved to another region in Syria sympathetic to the Taliban. Most times they were transported in the quiet of the desert night, driven around for hours, sometimes in circles, just to confuse the prisoners. The hiding places varied, from abandoned homes and tents in the desert, to deserted bunkers or caves in the mountains. From the urgency in their voices, he suspected they feared discovery.
 

Someone cut his bonds. Dark skinned hands roughly hauled him to his feet. The scum who’d whipped him, the one Ford swore he’d kill with his bare hands once the opportunity presented itself, grabbed his overgrown hair and yanked up his head. Ford glared at the son-of-a-bitch.

“I should have killed you,” the guard, Shalah, said in French.

“You can try,” Ford returned in the same language.

Shalah laughed, a sound just short of menacing. “You are too brave for your own good, Lieutenant. I would have enjoyed breaking you.”

“I’ll see you in Hell first,” Ford said in English, then spat on the guard.

His reward was a rifle butt to his gut. Air whooshed out of him. He doubled over. Before he could regain his breath, the guards shoved him in the back of the covered truck and closed the canvas flap.
 

“You never learn, my friend,” Jacques, a fellow prisoner, said as he pulled Ford deeper into the truck. “That one enjoys tormenting you.”

“He’ll die.” Ford winced when Jacques examined the fresh wounds. “They’ll all die.”

“
Oui
, but I may have a plan for our escape,” Jacques whispered.
 

Ford ignored the burning pain, and gave Jacques a level stare.
 

“We are the only ones being taken away,” Jacques explained. “From what I overheard this morning, we are being traded for weapons.”

“Traded? To who?”

Jacques shook his head. “I am not certain,
mon ami
. But it cannot be good for us, no?” The French chemist poured water from a canteen over Ford’s back. “This one is too deep,” he muttered in his native tongue.
 

Ford grit his teeth and forced the throbbing, burning pain from his mind as he digested the information. Jacques LeCuvier had value to the enemy. When they’d first brought the Frenchman to the camp, Ford hadn’t expected the delicate chemist to last more than a week, but for the past two years, Jacques had continuously proven him wrong.
 

I would have enjoyed breaking you
.
 

“If we’re the only two being traded,” Ford said, “that means fewer guards, my friend.”
 

“
Oui
, but they have guns. All we have are these,” Jacques said, holding up his smallish hands.

A slow grin curved Ford’s mouth. “That’s all the weapon I need.”
 

This was his chance, maybe even his last chance—and he’d be damned if he’d let the bastards live another day.

One

Three weeks later...

FORD PACED THE small space, anger and frustration his constant companions. He wanted to go home. He wanted to reclaim his life. Unfortunately, Colonel Benson, the base commander, had kept him caged in the military installation in Brussels for the past seventy-two hours. He hadn’t even been able to make a goddamn phone call. Criminals had more rights.

Proving he was indeed Lieutenant Ford Grayson, U.S. Navy SEAL, to the American Ambassador to Kuwait hadn’t been easy, but after two days of telephone calls, faxes and meetings, the military had finally sent Colonel Benson to confirm his identity. That process had taken another forty-eight hours of intense interrogation before Benson had been satisfied he was one of the good guys. They’d finally taken him to Brussels where he’d been held another three days for more debriefing. He’d told them everything he knew, from the moment the plane carrying him and his men had been shot down over the Mediterranean Sea, to his eventual capture behind enemy lines. He’d recounted his years in captivity, including LeCuvier’s part in blowing up the chemical plant on the Pakistani border, and their subsequent escape, to ten days later, arriving on foot at the Embassy in Kuwait.
 

And how had his government rewarded him? By caging him like a goddamned animal.
 

Ford swore viciously. He shoved his hands through his newly cropped hair, and continued to pace the sparsely furnished room, scowling when he passed the bunk where his sea bag rested, packed and ready. He’d been told he was being shipped out, but to where, he hadn’t a clue. He’d been at the mercy of the enemy for five years. Years of hell, years of suffering the whims of cruel jailors, with barely enough food to sustain a small child let alone a man. The room they’d given him now was little better than a prison cell, but at least the living conditions were an improvement over the various camps and abandoned houses.
 

He snapped around when a light rap sounded on the door. A young marine, no more than eighteen or nineteen, stepped into the room and saluted.
 

“At ease,” Ford said.
 

The grunt braced his feet shoulder-width apart, and folded his arms behind his back. “Lieutenant Grayson, Commander Ravelli has arrived and would like a word, sir.”

Ford nodded, waiting for the enlisted man to precede him from the room. He followed him down a long, narrow corridor, hoping now he’d have some answers. Like, why in the hell he couldn’t go home?

The marine stopped in front of a double door, knocked twice, then stepped aside. He quietly disappeared as Ford walked into the room, then closed the door behind him.
 

“My God, it really is you,” Paul Ravelli said, his voice gravelly. The senior officer came out from behind a standard government-issue desk to clasp Ford’s hand, then pulled him into a bear hug.
 

After he released him, Paul moved around the desk where he opened a drawer and retrieved a bottle of Glenlivet. He poured two fingers worth into a pair of tumblers.

 
He handed one to Ford. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ford said with a nod, then tossed back the Scotch. The alcohol burned his throat, settling into his stomach like a ball of fire. He hadn’t had a drink in so long, he’d almost forgotten what it was like. When Ravelli lifted the bottle in silent offering, Ford declined.
 

Paul perched on the edge of the desk and poured himself another. “It’s damned good to see you again,” he said, setting the bottle aside.
 

“And you.” Ford dropped into the chair the senior officer indicated. “Commander, huh?” When he’d first encountered Paul, he’d been a Lieutenant, like himself. “Not bad.”

“Yeah, well, you know how it goes.” Paul waved away the backhanded compliment. “Benson faxed me the reports of your activities. If I had my way, you’d be receiving a medal for what you’ve done. Unfortunately, it isn’t that simple. The Pakistani Army has claimed responsibility for the lab, and the U.S. is keeping the truth quiet.”

“I wasn’t looking for a medal when I went in.” Ford frowned. He’d been doing his job, the job his government expected of him. He’d sworn to protect his country, and that’s what he’d done. Sure, he hadn’t expected to be shot down or captured, but the mission had been to locate and disable enemy facilities by any means necessary. He’d done that, and thanks to Jacques LeCuvier, they’d taken it one step further and had leveled the damned thing. He’d been on enough top secret missions to understand why his government wouldn’t claim responsibility, but would allow some other, questionable group to revel in the glory.
 

Business as usual.

Ford looked at Paul, still as robust as Ford remembered him. The Commander hadn’t changed much in the past five years, other than his leap frogging promotions.

“How are you holding up?” Paul asked before taking another drink of Scotch.

“Fine, sir,” Ford replied, trying to keep a tight rein on his patience. He wanted answers.
 

“Cut the ‘sir’ crap,” Paul said. “We’re friends, remember? We’ve known each other a hell of a long time, and been in places I don’t care to see again. Right now I’m your friend, not your C.O.”

“Then I’d like to see home,” Ford stated honestly.
 

“And you will. I’m personally putting you on a transport to Carswell Field.”
 

That was the best news he’d heard in years. Carswell Field was located in the Fort Worth area, not far from his hometown of Hart, Texas.
 

Paul circled the desk to drop into a squeaky leather chair. Frowning, he hesitated for a moment before opening a file marked
Eyes Only
. “A lot has changed since you went missing.” Slowly, he slid an eight-by-ten color photograph across the desk.

Mattie
.